THE SPANKING WRITERS

The new academic year approaches at Universities around the country, and two of this year’s Freshers – both regular commenters here – have launched their own spanking blog. Do click over to Freshly Spanked and say hi to Smudge and Irelynn!

Perhaps that’s what inspired the following little reverie:

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One fresher, one second-year girl, both reading the same subject, chatting in the student bar. Tutorial groups for the coming year were being agreed: the best academics found their sessions over-subscribed, and were thus able to be selective. The leading professor was about to interview freshers to see which he would accept into his group:

Fresher: “Was Professor Jenkins your supervisor last year?”

Older girl: “He was.”

Fresher: “You did really well, didn’t you. I’m thinking of applying to him. Is he any good?”

Older girl, blushing: “He’s… inspirational But… he’s different.”

Fresher: “In what way?”

Older girl, looking away. “He… has ways of encouraging you to do well.”

Fresher: “Such as?”

Older girl. “I can’t say. Just… just look on his wall behind his desk when you go for your interview. It’s not there just for effect.”

Cut to professorial office: piles of papers and textbooks everywhere. Our fresher is sitting being interviewed: she stares past the professor’s shoulder, transfixed. For there, hanging from a hook, was a long, thick cane…

—

I doubt our favourite Freshers will be quite so lucky, but we’re sending them love and good luck hugs anyway…

I’m in Cyprus at the moment, staying with Cath and having a lovely time.

Yesterday, we went exploring in Nicosia, the capital, which is delightful. A little research had revealed a hidden gem, the Hamam Omerye, a traditional bathhouse. Dating from the 14th century, it’s been restored recently, capturing a Europa Nostra award (Europe’s top gong for conservation) in 2006. We were lucky, in that bathing is usually single-sex; Monday is the only “couples” day.

The place is a delight, a haven from the heat and bustle of the world outside – all fluffy towels and relaxing massages. The Hamam bath itself is a set of seven rooms, each at a different temperature; one sits (or lies) on the hot stone benches, unwinding, scrubbing oneself (or one’s partner) gently in the warm waters. It’s quite gorgeous.

Of course, as we relaxed, I told tale of the sultan in Ottoman times. The girls of his harem would have been sent here to bathe, no doubt. No towels to cover his young ladies in those days, of course; as a result, the marks of his displeasure would be plain to see, a lesson to all.

Yet one new girl had clearly not learnt said lesson: she’d displeased the sultan, and her fate awaited her: “You are to report to his chamber on your return from the bathhouse.” She’d plead for his mercy, but she knew that none would be forthcoming. By tomorrow, she’d be the one wearing fresh stripes from his whip as she bathed naked with the others.

Grand rooms, stories of maidservants, paintings of beautiful young wives on the walls – it’s no wonder that, at some point when touring a country house, our minds flick into spanko overdrive. It’s unusual, though, for it to happen quite as quickly as it did at Cragside, about which Haron’s been posting recently. For no sooner than one has walked past the ticket desk do tour groups find themselves in the butler’s pantry. And there, on the wall, are three carpet beaters – right next to a solid table over which girls would presumably have bent.

But matters become more complicated than that, for a few rooms further in is the butler’s study: a comfortable room, this, complete with his writing desk, armchair and bowler hat. He’d come here in the evenings, no doubt, to relax and unwind at the end of a busy day – whilst still remaining alert should the gentlemen next door require a top-up of port.

Hold on, though. We’d just pictured the punishments in the pantry. And here was this other, quite wonderfully-evocative room. It would be such a shame to allow it to go to imaginary-waste. The solution was clear: the first room, the pantry would be for summary punishment – a few sharp, stinging swats of the carpet beater thwacking across the girl’s dress in the middle of the day. But this second room, the study? The young maids would dread it, for this is where the butler would deal with more serious misbehaviour.

The girl would be told to wait outside his study, facing the wall, at the end of her day’s work. No knocking to alert him to her presence: she’d wait for twenty minutes, more, sometimes until he happened to emerge and notice her. Once inside, she’d receive a stern lecture, before the cane would be taken from the top of his bookcase and she’d be told to undress and touch her toes. Six strokes, sometimes a dozen, would follow: hard, expertly-administered, a hard-learnt lesson.

And then… a few rooms further on… his Lordship’s study. Far grander. Surely this couldn’t go unused in our reinvention of the house? Conveniently, it stood at the top of stairs leading down to the Victorian sauna – complete with cold plunge pool. Ah, but the two rooms could easily be combined.

“Mr Watkins?”

“Yes, my Lord?”

“Would you take the girl downstairs and make sure she’s clean?”

And the maid, caught committing some particularly dreadful offence (rifling through a guests’ belongings, maybe?), would be led – protesting, no doubt – down the narrow stairs. Her clothes would be removed; she’d be ordered into the icy waters.

The butler would then dry her, roughly, with a towel before leading her – shivering, still naked, back up the stairs. His Lordship would be waiting, the birch cut by the butler that afternoon in his hand.

“You may leave us, Mr Watkins, whilst I deal with the girl.” And the butler would wait outside, listening to her sobs. No short, sharp shock, this – his Lordship would flog her slowly, methodically, making every stroke count, giving her one final chance instead of dismissing her without references.

And then the door would open, and the girl would emerge – soundly thrashed – into the corridor, to be led back to the servants’ quarters by the butler. She’d return under his supervision the following morning, of course, to kneel painfully on the floor, brush in hand, and sweep up the remnants of the birch that had scattered across the rugs during her punishment. And then nothing more would be spoken of the incident again.